


Chirality.

by orange_crushed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's better. It's specific. It's true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chirality.

There's a phone in John's hand, and Sherlock wants it.

"No," says John. "One minute." He's texting someone. Quickly and sloppily. Missing the apostrophes. Irritated. Irritated but not unduly so. Irritation on a well-worn track, old habits, old bad blood. Probably Harry, then; Harry and her women's problems. Sherlock reaches out and tries to snatch it out of his fingers- logical in a roundabout way. This is faster. John holds it back and stares at him narrowly, like he's done something incredibly wrong. Worse than the toes in the microwave? Oh. Yes. On the sliding scale that Sherlock still can't quite discern. "One minute," he says, again, as if Sherlock's problem was English grammar instead of time. "That's all I asked."

"In one minute," Sherlock huffs, "my killer-"

"-will have to wait, just like you." John taps the phone and folds it shut. Holds it out. Sherlock takes it suspiciously. It's still warm from being held; John's hands, shorter fingers, denser palms. Freckles on the wrists. Cuts on both thumbs from the kitchen knives, which are sharper than they ought to be, since Sherlock keeps using them for- well. John rolls his eyes and stalks away and Sherlock cradles the phone for a long second. And then he texts Lestrade:

 _Brother wears a size twelve shoe.  
Your sniffer dog's a twit._

He slides the phone into John's coat pocket when he's done.

 

 

There's a map in John's hand, and Sherlock is busy tugging it out of his fingers and shouting directions at the cab driver. John gives up and lets him, and the map crumples into Sherlock's fists. John makes an irritated noise and looks away, out the window. Sherlock looks at John. For a brief, insane second, he wants to hand it back and take it away all over again.

He has no idea why.

 

 

Sherlock is tapping his fingers on the edge of the couch- tap one two three tap one two three- and now arrhythmically, now Glass and Bartók and now _Flight of the Bumblebee_. There is a great big ball of nothing wedged up inside his brain; he's been lying on this couch for hours, without a problem, without relief, just vegetating and developing a murderous headache. John made toast and eggs in the morning, before he left for his shift. Sherlock ate the leftover toast and hurled the plate at the wall. It is a Bad Day.

"Hello," John calls, with ridiculous cheer, when he finally comes back in. He hangs his coat on the hook by the door. Chronic neatness. Incurable. Sherlock frowns and rolls into a sitting position, leaning into the arm of the couch. He doesn't answer. It's absurd to greet someone you saw eight hours and thirty-four minutes ago. "Well," says John, glancing down at Sherlock's bare feet and the plate on the floor beside them. "This looks productive." Sherlock looks away.

"You're a riot."

"That's what they keep telling me." John sits down beside him, heavily, stretching his legs out in front of him. Given his light mood, he was faced with a series of petty problems. People's head colds and snotty-handed children. Minor sprains. Nothing worth John's expertise. "Ah." John sinks back. "I'm knackered. And we've got nothing in. Is Thai alright with you?" Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise. John seems to mistake it for interest, and he sits forward to rifle through the takeout menus on the coffee table. Sherlock's fingers are still tapping on the seam at the edge of the cushions. Faster and faster.

There's a long silence, a space where the only sound is paper shuffling and Sherlock's frantic beat against the couch. John looks over at him, raises an eyebrow. And puts his hand over Sherlock's, holds it still.

After a minute, John gets up to find his phone, and Sherlock lingers with his hand pressed into the sofa. He brings it up to his chest, holds it against the skin at the neck of his shirt. It's warmer than the other. Warmer than anything. How maddeningly unspecific. It's like- no. It's like nothing. It doesn't connect. John's middle and ring fingers are almost exactly the same length. Does that mean anything? "Green curry?" John says, from the kitchen. "Or that lemongrass chicken you like?"

Oh, thinks Sherlock. Oh.

 

 

There's a pen in John's hand. "Absolutely not," he says. He's got that line between his eyes, the furrow that indicates he is three-quarters dug into a fight and one-quarter completely confused as to why he's fighting at all. Sherlock appreciates it aesthetically, and also as a gauge of how much convincing it's going to take. "There are at least forty pens in this flat," he insists. "Why can't you-"

"I can't," Sherlock says. He holds out his palm, face-up, demanding. John scowls and practically slaps the pen into it. Sherlock smiles faintly, and then drops it on the floor.

"What," John starts to say, blankly. Halfway through the thought, Sherlock takes his hand. John stops and stares down at the place where Sherlock's fingers are curling around his. Sherlock feels the tension in his wrist, and then he feels the tension seep away. John's arm relaxes and John's hand wraps itself around his. "Idiot," says John.

"Your little pejoratives-"

"No, me," says John. "Me." He smiles and tugs Sherlock closer, and Sherlock bends willingly. "And you, too. If I'm lucky."

They kiss but it's really like closing a circuit; hand to wrist and lips to mouth, the route of electricity, completion. Sherlock feels the moebius twist internally, when John sighs into his own air. It's better. It's specific. It's true. And John kisses the pulse in his throat.


End file.
